Remorse and Rotting Wood
by Stretch1
Summary: The darkness of the past and emptiness of the future collide as Satire sits alone, cold and broken.


He sat there, the brilliance of the world hiding behind a shroud of night. The rotting wood around him provided his only shelter to the outside elements, yet all he felt was inner pain. No. Don't show it. Hiding is the best form of defense. His green eyes flashed as the last hint of amber brushed the sky before the sun retired to rest its weary eyes. Rubbing his temples in an attempt to make the demons stop, he longed the ability to do the same. He could feel their nails grip into his psyche, clawing at his sanity.

As a tear rolled down his tender cheek, moistening his raw, cracked lips, he sighed deeply, letting the cool air fill his lungs, still tasting the salt. Let him go. He felt the grip still ten years later. Past, destroyed. Future, uncertain. He wouldn't let go. Couldn't seemed more like it. It was all Alaric's fault. The bastard. Then again, you can't blame a child.

He sat there, rocking back and forth. He felt so confused, as if his own mind wandered away from him, leaving his childish shell there to wonder in frightened silence. The Industrial Revolution and all its glory raged outside, and all he could feel, taste, smell, think about as each second went by were his past demons and the voices that told him to dwell.

One couldn't keep living like this, and yet in this life there was no where else to go. Those who had lived the same kind of life he had followed became no better than the factory janitor, cleaning up after the accidents that ripped little fingers from little hands. He felt so lost, a loss of understanding, of innocence, of purpose. For both blame he placed on himself through past demons and evils left unfaced inevitably lurking in the future, he felt utterly abandoned in a world that couldn't care less if he rotted where he sat.

His brother's death lay there on his shoulders, his uncertainty of whatever future may lie ahead weighed on his mind. He was stuck between wanting to move on and not knowing what to move on to. He felt like he was trying to balance himself on a thin piece of land between two abysses. He still felt the illness that crept inside of him and bled its way into his baby brother's lungs…and yet he couldn't sense any sign of the future. Swallowing hard, beads of sweat prickling his forehead, he tried desperately to keep the acid in his stomach down, stress working against him.

What does one do to move on after their soul turns black from the pains of the past? A murderer at eight, his strained cough, his splitting throat, the thick mucus strangling his lungs. He never meant to pass it on. He never meant for the illness to transform, to take hold of the child's body refusing to let go. He couldn't breathe. No matter how he writhed, how he kicked and screamed in a silent internal battle, he was choking. Pneumonia broke his small frame, turning his lips blue, his eyes a cold gray. Pneumonia gripped him until they wrapped him in sheets, dumping him off the side of the ship sailing to the land of the free.

Shaking off the memory of Alaric's frozen eyes, Satire tried to make sense of his opportunities. After all, this city was full of them. A guy like him could rise up and become…a street sweeper, or even a hand on the city docks. That wasn't a future, that was a last resort. He couldn't see a life after being a newsboy. He couldn't even move on from the past. How was he supposed to start on the next chapter in his life when he couldn't bear to close the last one?

He searched his mind for any answer, but only a deep void filled his consciousness. He felt as if he was being blanketed by the nothingness he was trying so desperately to move away from, and yet he had no strength to do so. It was then he understood what Alaric's last moment's felt like…the inability to do anything but mull over what was taking over him and simply sit there helpless.

Satire sat there, his usual exultant attitude now covered in the darkness around him and the hollowness inside. The rotting wood beneath his weight moaned in pain as he rocked back and forth. Purpose was lost on him, the power to trudge through to the next step in his life kept him there in silence. He felt so lost, sitting there in the once brilliant world now shrouded by night.


End file.
